Victor
by no.name.neccessary
Summary: What happens in a warless world, when the rich and powerfull no longer have political oulets? Men like Victor, genetically modified to be perfect in every way, become the outlet. There may be no international war, but there is war, silent but existant.


Disclaimer:

All resemblances to other works are purely coincidental and unintentional. I neither own nor posess the right to any story which the below work may resemble.

Slightly violent story, not usually my cup-o-tea.

Decided to try writing in a different field, you know, expand my horizons and so-forth.

Please leave reviews. I adore feedback, whether good or bad.

Foreword:

By the year 2051, the use of genetic modification is a staple of American life. Fetuses, while still in the womb, could have their life chosen for them. They could be modified to have incredible stamina, and be placed in a manual labor unit. The world's leading scientists have been modified to be super-intelligent, and even the Armed Forces has jumped in, modifying their soldiers with super-senses, increased strength & stamina, and the ability to make split-second decisions without remorse. Victor Dominovich is only one of these people. But Victor's story is ultimately unique.

In 2051, mankind has made not small steps, but leaps and bounds in technological innovation. The combustion engine is obsolete, giving way to new, electric means of transportation. Humans are no longer plagued by the ravages of war and sickness, thanks to the War Treaty signed finally by all the nations of the world, and a miracle drug doctors had been dreaming about since the 1800's. Fetuses in the womb can now have the foundation of their life laid out for them before they are born. For those who do not get standard modifications, life is usually much simpler. These people are put doing the work that makes civilized life possible for the rest of mankind. There is, however, that slim margin,1 in 100,000 chance, that a fetus will be chosen to undergo radical modifications of super-human proportions. Included in this margin is what will eventually become Victor Dominovich. Victor's fetus is given to a genetic scientist by the name of Aldred Maine, a pioneer in genetic research and modification. During the 7 months that follow, Victor will undergo a transformation that will, ultimately, make him unique in both how he functions, and what he does with his abilities.

* * *

28 Years Later

1

As he lies on the ground, pulse rifle squared against his shoulder, Victor Dominovich cannot help but think about what he was preparing to do. As his mark walks out of his headquarters, he is just 5 steps from his vehicle. 5 steps, and he would be untouchable behind the armored transport's pulse dissipating skin. 4 steps away, Victor took aim, and by the time his mark took his third step, he was ready to fire. By his fourth step, Victor pulled the trigger, and the mark's fate was set. The pulse traveled the 200 yards to its target, and hit the mark square in the chest. The electricity contained within the pulse spread through the mark, and wreaked havoc on his aorta. He bled to death before he had time to feel the pain. The pulse was untraceable, and by the time anyone on the mark's security detail realized what had happened, Victor was long gone, blending into the cement jungle of the Swiss banking district. This was his 53rd kill, and he was praised in the underground as the most successful assassin ever known. As he looked out of the window of the jet that would take him away from yet another kill, he thought to himself, "What makes me so special?" He would ponder this question for the remainder of that 2 hour flight.

2

When Victor landed back in New York, he was once again fully attuned to everything around him. As he should be, because 100 yards away, on the roof of the airport's main building, lay a man with a rifle and a scope. His mark was Victor Dominovich, his business rival, and he had no intention of missing. As Victor stepped off of the plane onto the tarmac, he sensed something was wrong. He saw the glint of the scope a split-second before his would be assassin fired. Victor dropped to the ground, as the pulse flew straight where his head would have been a mere second ago. He rolled behind the plane's enormous wheel, and drew his own weapon, a small microwave emitter. He stuck his head out for a split-second, then yanked it back in. But, in that time, he was able to gain the distance and location to his new target. He popped out from behind the wheel, kneeled and fired. The bolt of energy flew true, and on impact sent a wave of microwave energy that melted his assailant's rifle, and caused burns on his arms and face. While the would-be-assassin was blinded, Victor saw his chance. He re-gauged the distance to target, and took off full tilt toward the 25 foot wall. He scaled the vertical wall effortlessly, and crouched on the roof in a combat stance. He immediately registered that his target was still alive, but just barely. He calmly walked over to the assassin, and spoke to him, not angrily, but as condescendingly as he could. "Who sent you?" he said. His mark replied, "Go to he……" That was all he had time to say, as Victor had sent a powerful kick straight to his breast bone. Victor jumped off the roof, and calmly walked to the taxi that would take him to his apartment.

3

I know what you are thinking, how can he do that? Well, 28 years and seven months ago, while still a fetus in an artificial womb, he was changed. His changer, Aldred Maine, wanted to really test his research by creating a quintessential super-human war machine. Victor was given lightning fast reflexes, the vision of an eagle, the acute hearing of a deer, and even limited night-vision capabilities. He had a sixth sense for danger, a sense his changer called "Situational Assessment." He could accurately fire any weapon known to man, and was a very effective, clean, killer. His weapon of choice, a pulse rifle, totally untraceable, with a near zero percent survival rate. Once you were in Victor's sights, you were, effectively, dead. He had now killed 54 people, men and women, all over the world. He could blend into any country, and speak with a flawless accent. He had numerous identities, and could disappear from the face of the Earth effortlessly. He was the perfect assassin, untouchable, untraceable, and remorseless. He is Victor Dominovich, he is unique, and he'll kill for anyone willing to pay him. As he sat in his apartment, he could not have known that, 4 blocks away, a secret government organization was housed in a 5 story building, and he was about to be forcibly conscripted to do what he did best.

4

The light flickered on and off, as usual. The television screen was snowy, and the sound drowned out by static. This too was normal. The man sitting behind the desk at the Hotel Aurelias had never checked anyone in, or out, in his life. While he looked uninterested and helpless to stop anyone trying to gain entry, his senses were on red-alert, and beneath his overstuffed down coat, a 9mm Beretta sat in a sling under his left arm. Though far out of date, he knew how to use it with deadly precison.

Like the receptionist, the façade of the Hotel Aurelias gave nothing away. Just another hotel in another American city. Little did the people who walked mere feet from its doors, without even a second's thought, know the truth. The agency housed within this average building was responsible for averting many of the world's potential crises. The organization called itself the National Protection and Espionage Agency, or the N.P.E.A., and they were the nation's best kept secret.

Howard Connors, a man who took his coffee black every day, who dresses in a gray business suit every day, and who carried a standard brown briefcase to the "hotel" every day, could be mistaken for the average stock broker, or even a school principal. But the truth of this man's life is that he is perhaps the second most important and influential person in the United States, second only to the president, and no one knows he exists.

5

Victor sat, .45 caliber pistol balanced on his thigh. He was watching the television program, marred by near constant commercial interruption, with little more than vague enthusiasm. He sat this way, every night for the last month, to think about his life. The man who made him had engineered him under the guise of creating the perfect bodyguard. Although war between nations had been eliminated, an urban war flourished. The rich and powerful, no longer able to influence politicians to attack the countries of their rivals, in order to ruin them, now directly instigate the death of one-another. It is through men such as Victor that these transactions of death occur. But Victor is different, and difference attracts unwanted attention. His business rivals, jealous of his superiority and scared for their own customer's loyalty, have repeatedly made attempts on his life. He has evaded them all. So he sits with his pistol, and walks, and drives, and flies, and does everything, with his pistol. It is all he needs to eliminate every mark once they are in sight.

There was a noise from behind him.

Suddenly, there was a cable around his throat. The tension slowly bending and warping his windpipe closed. His preconditioned instincts kicked in, and he tensed his neck muscles and held his breath. He dropped the gun, a fatal mistake in any other situation for any other man. He reached behind him, felt hair, and moved down. Once he felt the assassin's jaw line, he dug his fingers between it and the neck. Then he simultaneously flipped the man over his head, and twisted, causing the helpless assassin to spin several times in midair, and then land on the floor with a sickening crunch.

A single twitch, and he lay still.

Victor, breathing and heart rate unaffected, bloodstream all but absent of adrenaline split seconds after being released, stood motionless.

He grabbed the pistol from where it lay on the floor, and cocked it silently. He drew a silencer from his pocket, and screwed it on to the gun's barrel. He aligned the gun with the soft spot on the man's skull, and fired. A thump was all that was audible to the average bystander as the bullet left the barrel at roughly 1500 feet per second and lodged itself in the man's L2 vertebra. No blood, no evidence.

Why shoot the man, his neck is broken?

It takes an incredible amount of force to break a person's neck, and this force is beyond almost everyone.

The gunshot wound will cause authorities, when the body is found, to suspect the 80 or so percent of the world which own guns.

Why leave the body for authorities to find?

This man was a business rival, and Victor was growing tired of being threatened. He needed to send a message.

6

The police chief sat at his desk, as he did most mornings. He sipped coffee, and read the paper. There was a knock at his office door.

His chief deputy walked in, carrying a small sheaf of papers.

"What are those," the chief asked, he did not like idle chit-chat.

"Packing lists and tracking information from a crate that has just been delivered and addressed to you, sir."

"Very well, where is it?"

"In the loading bay, follow me sir."

"I bloody well know where the loading bay in _my_ precinct is, you ruddy twit!"

"Yes sir, of course sir. Sorry sir."

As the two delivery men typed a code on the titanium universal shipping crate, the police chief waited with rare enthusiasm. It was not often that anything aroused any mystery in his life, but Victor was keen to aid in that monotony's dispelling.

The box's doors slid open, and a roughly six foot, 200 pound man fell onto the chief.

He had a bullet wound to the head, and a broken neck.

"What, where the hell did this thing come from?" the chief asked, red with rage.

"Hold on a second, sir," the packing agent to the left said, stumbling over his words in shock, "the mayor's….house."


End file.
